


Ghosts Of A Future Lost

by pollencount



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen, Introspection, M/M, Tragedy, self reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 22:12:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollencount/pseuds/pollencount
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Behind Anders' eyes there is a war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts Of A Future Lost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StormDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDragon/gifts).



> I'm not sure if this qualifies as a real fic, as there is no plot whatsoever. Just a thought process.

Hawke smiles at me. That charmingly pseudo-innocent smile he only uses when he's done something naughty. Or when he thinks _I_ have done something naughty. Or stupid. Or both. That smile that tells me, this is a man that has done just as much damage/good with his face as with his daggers. If not more. It tells me that contrary to popular belief this is not one to look for a fight wherever and whenever he can. Somehow it also manages to make him look incredibly young and old beyond his years at the same time. All the surprisingly defined wrinkles framing his bright expressive eyes. He's so full of contradictions. How the hell can he even exist?  
He sees me and he doesn't. He sees Anders now and Justice when I'm angry and the amber of my eyes turns to blue. He doesn't quite see that we are one and the same. Doesn't understand. I can't blame him, though, as I myself don't fully comprehend.  
There have always been two souls in my body. Long before Justice even. Struggling for dominance.  
My life began as I more of less willingly exchanged the warmth of my mother's belly for the cold Anderfels air. My life as a mage began with destruction. A fire. Terrifying. Merciless. Mesmerizing. Before I was a healer, I was a destroyer.  
Hawke doesn't see that either. Or he chooses not to. He doesn't see the mania behind my own carefully constructed smile. The despair creeping up on me with increased regularity, while I laugh and joke. Laugh and joke. Always the actor. That flirtatious guy, who loves cats and wears the same old feathered pauldrons day in, day out. Who heals the poor and obsesses over mage rights as if there's nothing else of relevance in the world. And I am. I _am_ all that. But I am also lost. Lost in myself. Lost in the world.  
He's trying to mend me with that smile. But it's too late. And he knows it. Somewhere deep down he knows that I am beyond repair. I didn't want to be like that. Broken. More wrong than right. I didn't want it. Still don't. But that's what I am. Have been from the start.  
I'm not even sure whether I believe in destiny or if life is just an unlucky succession of accidents. Perhaps it's merely a joke on the expense of us all. A bad one, mind you. Who knows, maybe the Maker just has a very idiosyncratic sense of humour. I can absolutely imagine him sitting in some luminous rainbow-chair somewhere in the clouds, amused at all the stupid fights down here. Templars hunting mages for killing Templars, who abuse mages for turning to demons in desperation, after being locked up and degraded by Templars, who fear what they don't understand. It's an infinite cycle of ignorance and obstination. Full of bad decisions on either side. Myself included. As _I_ , Anders, am the master of bad decisions. And I'm tired of it. So tired. Tired of the Templars. And the blood mages. Tired of this war, that's going on right under everyone's noses, but yet no one dares to call it by its name. For there is no war in Kirkwall. That's the funny thing about oppression. The sole voice belongs to the oppressor. We can argue and scream and write letters of complaint to no end. We are not heard.  
But I will make us heard!  
I will make it so that they have no choice but to listen. I will make them face the consequences of their actions. After decades of injustice and lies, this regime will perish, just like everything it has touched with its corrupt hands. Hands, that should have protected and cared for those under their guard. For mages and non-mages alike, for humans and elves and dwarves and everyone under the stars which unite us.  
With their eyes wide open every single person in Kirkwall – no, in Thedas – will realize. The time is up!  
This farce ends now once and for all!  
Hawke smiles at me.  
And I smile back. Sheepish. Awkward. And just a little bit tired.  
Sometimes you have to destroy something, before it can heal.


End file.
